


Mad About You

by DrunkGerbil



Series: It's catching [1]
Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Mentions of Richard/Other, Past Jeremy/Francie, Post-Divorce, sexual identity crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28464843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrunkGerbil/pseuds/DrunkGerbil
Summary: When Jeremy learns a secret about Hammond, it does quite a bit more than just open his eyes. Life would have been so much easier if it hadn't.
Relationships: Jeremy Clarkson/Richard Hammond
Series: It's catching [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112729
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Mad About You

**Author's Note:**

> I rewrote this three times. This is as good as it gets.

Filming for series five has just started when Hammond invites them to a lads’ night out. Following the pattern they have established over the last year and a half, they end up in Jeremy’s regular.  
The alcohol has just started to work its magic, and Jeremy and James watch with endless glee as the new and utterly beautiful waitress tries to flirt with Hammond. She pulls out all the stops, and still Hammond is bollocksing it up so badly it almost seems like he’s doing it on purpose. 

Finally, the poor girl accepts defeat and angrily sashays away. 

“How is someone who looks like you so bad with women?” Jeremy wheezes, him and James laughing to the point of tears. 

It’s always the same, wherever they go. The birds fly to Hammond, bewitched by his boyish charms and his big, brown eyes, who in turn has no idea what to do with them. He fumbles and mumbles and generally looks embarrassed. 

If Jeremy didn’t know any better, he’d think Hammond is gay.

“What I wanted to tell you,” Hammond interrupts the piss taking meekly, “is that I’m gay.”

Huh. 

Jeremy’s brain needs a moment to reboot. James, too, seems a little perplexed. Hammond looks on in trepidation, his eyes flicking between the two of them. 

“Really?” Jeremy finally asks. 

“...Yes Jeremy, really,” comes the terse reply. 

“Since when?!”

“What do you mean, since when? Since always!” Hammond hisses defensively, temper flaring even quicker than usual. 

“I thought - the girls-” he breaks off as he mentally goes over every occasion where Hammond had mentioned going on a date, how vague he’d always kept it. No names, always just ‘my date’, and the assumptions of the others filled in the rest for him. Jeremy certainly has always pictured pretty girls, petite and giggly, with enough humour to get past what he had presumed was terrible shyness. 

“Hammond, you know we don’t mind, right?” James says calmly, ever the reasonable one. A long pause follows, and only when both James and Richard turn to give him a questioning look does Jeremy realize his input is expected. 

“Right?!” James repeats, and a sharp pain shoots up Jeremy’s shin. 

“Right! Of course not. That would be ridiculous!” Jeremy says loudly, and Hammond gives him a pained smile when people look. 

“I’d really rather keep this on the down low, if it’s all the same to you,” he says quietly. They nod, and the relief that spreads over Hammond’s face makes something twinge in Jeremy’s gut. It’s profoundly wrong that their happy, fighty, shouty Hamster should have to worry about his friends, of all people.

“Don’t be such a woman, of course we’re not going to tattle,” he exclaims, albeit in a lower volume than he usually would. “I honestly just feel sorry for all the poor girls that are in love with you.” 

That earns him a snort, at least. After what clearly was quite a stressful moment for their friend, Jeremy and May set out to get everyone as sloshed as possible, and by the time they fall into a taxi, they are all in good spirits again. 

If only Jeremy could shake _this weird feeling_.

~

In the following weeks Jeremy finds himself considering Hammond on the strangest occasions. During filming, during writing sessions, in the pub. Daily things that have never been weird before suddenly feel awkward. Their rhythm seems off, and Jeremy has the sneaking suspicions it’s his own fault.

The thing is, he’d like to think of himself as a pretty good judge of character. Not that being gay is a positive or negative character trait. It doesn’t change anything between them. Or it shouldn't. Still, it bothers him that he didn’t know something so important about one of his closest colleagues. They’ve been working together for over two years now, he and Hammond.  
Then again, James had appeared surprised, too, and he’d known Hammond for several years more. Not as flummoxed as Jeremy, maybe, but it had been news to him, too. Right?

It’s James, though. He’s slow. 

They haven’t talked about it since. What’s there to talk about, anyway? It’s not like Jeremy wants to know the intricate details of Hammond’s gay sex life.  
It’s just that right now he’s stuck on a joke that he would have put into the script without a second’s hesitation not long ago. A gay joke, of course. Jeremy wonders how Richard actually feels about them. He never complained before, but was that just in a bid to keep it secret? Does it bother him? What do his parents think when they see it on the telly? His brothers, who he's so close with? Do they even know the truth? Should he ask?

“Alright, mate?” Hammond asks from the couch in their little presenter room, legs crossed and laptop on his knees. James is off making the fifth round of tea, because it’s one of those days. Grey and wet and cold, and the car waiting on the track is a bit rubbish.

“Huh?” Jeremy says, snapped out of his daydreaming.

“Well, you’ve been staring at me for the past five minutes and I’m getting a little concerned.” 

_That_ has happened more than once lately, which is unfortunate, because Hammond has noticed that something is up.

“Uh, yeah. Just thinking. You know, staring into the middle distance,” Jeremy answers. Richard looks unconvinced, so a diversion is needed. “The Germans wrote back about the lightning stunt you want to pull. I was just thinking about the filming schedules.”

“Oh yeah?” He sits up straighter, a grin on his face, successfully distracted. 

Later, Jeremy writes the gay joke into the script. He aims it at James. Compromises.

~

“Do you have a... you know?” Jeremy asks the next time they are in the pub. Hammond watches his crude hand gestures with a raised eyebrow. 

“I might regret asking this, but… a what?” he inquires carefully. 

Jeremy leans over the table and whispers, “A boyfriend.” 

James breathes in some of his pint and starts coughing. 

“Why are you asking?” Hammond evades, pounding on James’ back until he wheezes, “Stop hitting me, you pikey!” 

To be honest, Jeremy has no idea. The question wouldn’t leave him alone. Morbid curiosity, maybe. And anyway, why is Richard looking at him so suspiciously? It’s a valid question. Jeremy settles for indignation when he answers, “What, can’t I take an interest in my mate’s life anymore?” 

The other two give each other a bewildered look before turning it on him.

“What?” 

They start laughing.

“What?! I asked _you_ about your ballet correspondent, and I asked _you_ about your stupid, fictional girlfriends, before...” he trails off and gestures at Hammond again. 

“Alright, alright, you’re mate of the year! Stop waving your arms around before you take someone’s eye out,” Richard says, cradling his own pint protectively against himself. Jeremy notes that he still hasn’t answered, and isn’t about to let it go.

“And?” 

“I’m, uh…hell, Clarkson. I’m sort of seeing someone, yes.” 

There’s his answer. Hammond’s seeing someone. That’s great, right? His mate has somebody to come home to. Everybody needs a little love and affection. Jeremy is happy for him. Jeremy would be a lot happier if he didn’t feel like someone punched him in the gut. 

“Serious?” he asks, trying not to sound strangled.

Hammond looks a little pained when he answers, “I… I guess.” 

Something peculiar happens then, because as he says it, Hammond’s eyes snap to somewhere behind them. It’s so quick, Jeremy might not have noticed, if he hadn’t been looking straight at him. Jeremy turns, despite Richard saying, “Wait,” and sees… nobody. There are only a few people in the pub. It’s still early and there’s no football on tonight. No one in his direct line of sight.  
Except for the barkeeper. Who is looking back. And smiling. And waving awkwardly at them. Hammond returns the wave, before giving Jeremy a look that’s somewhere between annoyed and pleading. Daring him to say something and hoping he won’t. 

Of course, Jeremy has never not said anything in his life, so he hisses, “Jeff the barkeeper? _Jeff?!_ ” 

“Yes,” Hammond hisses right back, affronted. “Jeff the barkeeper!”

“Free drinks! Good on you, mate,” James says, apparently completely unbothered. Jeremy, on the other hand, has several questions.

“How? Why? When?”

Hammond rolls his eyes at him, the insolent little shit. “We come here every week, you spanner, sometimes more than once. Him and I got to talk one day, and- well- he’s a nice bloke.”

Now, nice is normally the little brother of shit, so Jeremy turns once more, looking Jeff up and down. He’s not unattractive, for a man. If that’s what you’re into. Tall, though not as tall as Jeremy, with a sturdy build. He’s a bit ginger, but the friendly face makes up for it. Jeff wears glasses that he only takes off to throw people out when they get too rowdy. Once, he nearly threw Hammond out when the shortarse had started some trouble with other patrons. Jeremy remembers, because Hammond had been in a strange mood all evening, and ended up sitting at the bar and having what looked like a maudlin chat with the barkeeper for the rest of the night after the other blokes pissed off.  
Could that have been the beginning?

Jeff has always seemed like a calm, level headed guy. Everything that Hammond isn’t. Maybe they work precisely because of that, but Jeremy isn’t sure he sees it. What does he know, though? Apparently, he sees not much at all. 

“I had no idea he was gay! I’ve been a regular here for nearly a decade!” Jeremy says, still kind of shocked.

“Well, you didn’t know about me, either. Maybe you just have a shit gaydar,” Richard mumbles into his pint. He’s giving Jeremy a weird look again. A tense frown, something searching in his eyes. Jeremy quickly turns to James to escape that look. 

“What else don’t I know about the people in my life?” he says in an accusing tone. “And you, James? Are you actually straight without telling anyone?!”

James gives him the two-fingered salute.

They change the subject afterwards, but the mood doesn’t quite recover. 

~

Next week’s studio filming goes brilliantly. The three of them play off of each other perfectly, and it feels like it ought to. This is it, the sweet spot of their three way relationship: Jeremy’s bombastic personality, Richard’s quick wit, and James’ understated, biting humor. 

It’s like nothing has changed, and Jeremy has to internally shake himself at that thought, because _nothing has_! Nothing has changed whatsoever, he‘s just being silly.

When finally the last members of the audience trickle out, happy and entertained, and the crew is mostly done packing up, Jeremy walks up behind Hammond and May and throws an arm around each of them. James shrugs him off almost immediately, but he shares in the grin that the other two wear. 

“Today went great, good job!” Jeremy says, because sometimes he has to be a good boss. “This calls for a celebration. Dinner and the pub afterwards? I’m paying.”

“Well, that’s an offer I can’t refuse,” James answers. Richard, on the other hand, looks crestfallen and a little embarrassed all of a sudden. 

“I can’t,” he says. 

“Nonsense,” Jeremy replies. There’s no can’t in his world. “Why not?”

They usually keep the evenings after the studio recording free for what they tell Andy are recaps, but actually are pub nights. A very effective team bonding exercise. It’s never been talked about explicitly, they’ve just sort of fallen into the rhythm, up to the point that none of them has bowed out without a serious reason in months now. 

“It’s Jeff’s birthday,” Hammond explains. 

“Oh,” Jeremy says dumbly. It makes sense, of course. Woman’s birthday has qualified as a serious enough reason for James, school theater for Jeremy. Family stuff. He just isn’t used to Hammond having such social obligations with anyone but his brothers. Jeremy knows when the two younger (but slightly taller) Hammonds’ have their birthdays, because Richard goes absolutely bonkers over them weeks in advance. It’s really quite sweet. 

There’s a pause, and Jeremy must be making some kind of face, because Hammond quickly rushes on, “You know I’d love to come, but-“ 

“It’s alright,” James breaks in, grinning. “You go and give your man a birthday blowjob.”

“Oh god, James!” Richard and Jeremy exclaim at the same time, both pulling very creative grimaces. 

“What? It’s tradition!” he protests, and bursts into his patented wheezing duck laugh. 

In the end, they walk out into the carpark, still bickering, all the way over to Hammond’s rickety old 911. 

“Next time,” he promises, and drives off the same way he usually does, with a squeal of tires and a spray of gravel in his wake. Jeremy looks after him for a moment longer, then turns to find James scrutinizing him. He doesn’t like that look one bit. Probing, curious, a little too knowing. 

“Your car or mine?” he asks as casually as possible. 

“Don’t be a cock,” James tells him, not unkindly, and walks over to the Panda. Jeremy blinks after him, shakes his head, and follows, unwilling to examine this too closely. For the rest of the night they very studiously do not talk about where Hammond is, and with whom. 

Two days later, when they are all back in the office, Jeremy spies vivid bruises on Hammond’s neck that he’s tried and failed to cover up with makeup and a standing collar. 

Of course, Jeremy points and exclaims, loudly, “Hammond, did you have a run-in with a vampire?” 

Hammond flips him off, answers, “You’re just jealous,” and suffers the good natured ribbing from their colleagues with a smug grin. They ask who the lucky lady is, and Hammond looks at his feet and mumbles something noncommittal, his smile unwavering. 

Jeremy, in turn, tries to ignore how hard that last statement hit. He isn’t jealous. Who would he even be jealous of? Hammond? Jeff?!

~

They are at an awards ceremony that they know they won’t win anything at, mingling, when some pompous talkshow arsehole giving an interview says something rather impolite about homosexuals in entertainment. It’s a reaction to some actor being outed the week before.  
He just happens to do so while they pass by behind him. Normally, Jeremy would ignore it, or turn to his cohorts, make a joke, maybe insult the talkshow idiot. Things have changed, though. The world looks different when you know a secret. 

He turns and is met with the sight of James pushing Hammond along, gently but firmly. His lips are moving, but whatever he says is so quiet that Jeremy’s ears can’t pick it up. Hammond doggedly stares ahead, his jaw tense, nothing left of the usual laughter lines that make his face light up and every girl in Britain faint. There is hurt in his eyes, so much that Jeremy is momentarily speechless.  
He hasn’t seen this before, but it doesn’t look new. An old and well hidden wound. He’s just allowed, however accidentally, to glimpse beneath the mask that will undoubtedly slip back up in a moment, will make Richard laugh it off like he isn't bothered at all.  
James is handling it like a pro. Gentle, calm, almost practiced. Like a good friend should. Jeremy, in comparison, flounders. 

Then the arsehole spots them, and everything goes from bad to worse. He turns and says, in the smarmiest way possible, “Ah, the blokes from Top Gear. You’re a manly bunch, what do you have to say on the matter?” 

Hammond’s hands ball into fists, and Jeremy stops between his friends and the camera. Fuck this prick. No one but him and James get to insult their Hamster, however unknowingly. No one gets to put that look there and gets away with it. He opens his mouth to say something suitably scathing, probably stupid, while hoping that James ushers Hammond away. 

Hammond’s temper is quicker, though. Something just snaps. Neither James’ alarmed look nor his outstretched hand stop him from stepping up to the bloke and the interviewer with murder on his face. 

To Jeremy’s great surprise, Richard doesn’t throw a punch on live television. He _does_ throw his drink in the bloke’s face, turns to the camera and says, “I’m gay,” before doing a 180 and storming out of the room. 

Jeremy just bursts out laughing. James - wonderful, sensible James - puts on a serene smile and tells the camera, “And we support him,” before he grabs Jeremy by the sleeve so they can go search for their wayward colleague and leave chaos in their wake. Business as usual.

They find Hammond in the gents, where he is working himself into a panic. When they enter, he jerks around from where he was bent over the sink, wild eyed. 

“I fucked up!” he says, hoarse. “I fucked up so bad.” 

Now, Jeremy knows how to comfort crying children. He thinks he knows how to comfort upset women - but then again, he’s twice divorced now. An adult man on the brink of a panic attack? Not so much.  
Thankfully, James is here. James, who says, “Excuse me, I’ll be right back,” and leaves the fucking room. Jeremy feels betrayed. Hammond looks ready to bolt or faint or tear his hair out, and Jeremy is not qualified to deal with any of that. 

“Hamster,” he says cheerfully. “That was hilarious!” 

Richard doesn’t seem to hear him, which is probably lucky. He isn’t in a state to appreciate the comedy of what he just did.

“What the fuck was I thinking?! I ruined everything! The show, my career, my fucking life!” His hands card through his hair, pulling hard and messing it up even more than it usually is. 

“Rubbish,” Jeremy says, and is ignored again. 

“It’ll be all over the telly and the tabloids and _everybody is going to know_!”

More hair pulling, and Jeremy reaches out and takes his hands away, holds on when Hammond makes to free himself. 

“Richard!” Jeremy has to raise his voice, and finally Hammond looks up, desperate and afraid. More afraid than when he was in a sinking car. 

“Nothing’s ruined. Not the show, not your career, and not your life.” 

“But-” 

“Shush! You won’t be fired, and even if somebody tried, I won’t let them. We won’t. Andy, James, the crew. We’re not going to let anything happen, alright? Nothing’s going to change."

"Everything already has!" Hammond yells, and Jeremy feels like he just got slapped. _I don’t know what that means_ , he tells himself, and consciously has to force his feet to stay where they are, to not bolt out of the room like the riders of hell are after him, because Richard looks scarily close to tears. This is no time for introspection. 

Jeremy does what he would do with his kids, if they were blubbering. He pulls him close into a crushing hug, and honestly, Hammond is pretty much the size of a child anyway, so it feels practically the same. His face is buried in Jeremy’s chest, and instead of struggling like Jeremy has expected him to, he clings on for dear life. 

It’s shocking how right it feels. 

_I’m comforting a friend_ , Jeremy tells himself. _That’s why it’s so nice. He’s my friend_.

The door opens, and Jeremy is ready to yell whoever entered right back out again, but it’s only James. He stops short when he sees the scene before him, and Jeremy glares, daring him to say something. In answer, James just holds up a bottle of gin in each hand. 

They proceed to get sloshed in the gents, once Hammond has stopped being all wobbly and allowed himself to be detached from Jeremy. Nobody who passes through questions it. They’re the blokes from Top Gear, after all. Getting sloppy drunk in the toilets isn’t out of character. 

~

Over the next week, it's all over the tabloids, and nobody is more surprised than Hammond at the public’s good reception. The BBC declares their support, and Jeremy suspects they are happy to finally have some of the diversity in the show that they’ve been nagging him about for so long. People write in, and of course there are bigots and arseholes among them, but the majority is quite positive. Andy, bless him, makes sure that the people reading the letters first know to weed out everything Hammond shouldn’t see. 

The crew collectively go on as if nothing happened. Richard is so grateful that he buys them all lunch.

It seems impossible, but the female viewers love their Hamster even more than before. 

~

People keep asking them about it to the point where it becomes tedious to repeat the same lines. 

“Yes, we knew he was gay. No, the coming-out wasn’t planned, the bloke’s just an asshole. Yes, we support Hammond. No, it changes nothing for Top Gear.”

People invite Hammond to talk on their shows. Even the talkshow idiot who started all this. Hammond prints the email just so he can put it through the shredder. He doesn’t go to any of them.

~

During the next studio recording, they show the film of Richard testing the newest Zonda. Back in summer he'd gone to the South of France for it, had _insisted_ , in fact. A car like that deserves better than a rainy country road in Britain, he'd claimed. He had demanded a sun kissed street on the coast and winding roads in the Alpes, and that's exactly what he'd gotten. 

It's a good item, mainly because Richard is so damn hyped for this car. His enthusiasm just catches everyone and pulls them along. Understandably, if Jeremy is honest. Pagani know how to make porn on wheels. 

When the film is over, the camera swivels over to where Jeremy and Richard are standing next to the Zonda, and they launch into their customary banter. Hammond nearly stumbles over his words in his excitement.

Then Jeremy has an idea. 

“This is bad news for you, gentlemen," he proclaims. "Very bad news. Little Richard has fallen in love with a ton and a bit of kevlar and wires.” 

Small as it may be, it's the first reference they’ve made on the show about the gay thing. Hammond looks startled, not yet used to it being out in the open and flinching a little every time it comes up. But Jeremy has to go somewhere with this joke, now that he’s started it. He takes a few steps over to the front row of the audience. There are a couple of young blokes, wearing short t-shirts and generally looking quite fit. Handsome in the way young people generally are. Grins on their faces, loving that they are here. They'll do just fine.  
Jeremy comes to a stop right next to them, turns to the camera, and says, “They’ve all come down here with their short sleeves, showing off their muscly biceps and their tans. But it’s no good! He’s gone!” 

The audience starts laughing, but what's more important is that Richard's laughing, too. It's the real deal, bright and infectious, and Jeremy _aches_. It's so sudden, so much, like a stab in the heart. 

_Fuck,_ he thinks. _What the fuck!_

He's in trouble, he knows. Afraid that it's a heart attack. Scared that it's not. 

Thankfully Hammond speaks up, distracts the people by saying, “I love it. I think this is the big one,” about the Zonda. The grin he wears, the spark in his stupid big eyes makes Jeremy want to buy him one. 

_The news,_ Jeremy thinks desperately. _Bridge, bridge, bridge._

“Now, we gotta go and do the news, before he leaves a deposit on it,” Jeremy says, and quickly turns away when Hammond starts laughing again. 

They get through the news, somehow. Jeremy turns his brain off and just lets his mouth do the work, and tries not to mess up his lines too badly while not-thinking about what the hell is wrong with him.

Later, when the audience starts to trickle out, Jeremy ducks out of a side door and lights up a smoke. And another. He’s on his third when James comes up beside him and asks casually, “You alright?” 

“Sure. Splendid. Why?” 

James gives him a look. Then he shakes his head and sighs. 

“You two are terrible and I hate you very much.” 

“What?” Jeremy asks, but before James can answer, he spies Richard through the crowd, headed their way. 

“Not feeling well,” he tells James. “Got to go.”

“I thought you were splendid,” James calls after him, the snarky bugger, but Jeremy is already at his car. As he drives off, he studiously ignores Hammond’s waving and books it home. 

~

He works his way through most of a bottle of wine before he dares look at his phone. There is one missed call, and several texts. 

_Hamster: What was that?_

_Hamster: James said you are ill._

_Hamster: Did you get home safe? I could have given you a ride._

_Jeremy: I’m home. Sudden headache_

It takes less than a minute for a reply to pop up on his phone. 

_Hamster: Do you need anything?_

_Jeremy: No, you big mum_

_Hamster: Just checking. You were off like a bat out of hell._

_Jeremy: Stop aggravating my head_

_Hamster: Alright. Get some rest._

Hammond leaves him be after that, and Jeremy finishes up the bottle. 

He does feel a little ill, now, the mixture of wine and the terrible thing that befell him not becoming him at all. He opens a second bottle, anyway. Maybe he can drown whatever’s wrong with him. Or give it alcohol poisoning. Drink away the memory of seeing his male colleague, his friend, and _want_. 

After he’s half way through that, he has a gloriously bad idea and grabs his phone again. He toys with the idea of calling Richard, of accusing him of things the poor man most certainly hasn’t done, but it’s late. There’s a good chance that Hammond is in bed already. In bed with Jeff. Jeff who makes really good gin tonics and gives Hammond lovebites that drive the makeup girls up the wall. 

The picture growing in his mind makes him more ill. 

Instead, Jeremy presses number one on speed dial, even though he’d never tell her that. It rings for quite some time, his muddled brain losing count after six. Finally, there’s the crackle of the line connecting, and a sleepy annoyed voice snapping, “Who are you and what do you want?” She’d obviously not looked at the caller ID. 

“Francie?” 

“Jeremy?! Do you have any idea how late it is?!” 

“I think I did something stupid,” he mumbles. 

“Are you drunk? Oh god, did you drunk drive and crash? Is someone hurt?”

“No,” he says, annoyed. “ _No!_ I’m at home, no one’s hurt.”

“Then why the hell do you call me at two in the morning?” 

And then he tells her, because he could always tell Francie anything. Before, during and after their marriage. It might have ended in divorce, but their friendship, as well as their professional relationship, has weathered all storms. 

“Oh Jeremy,” she says when he’s done, and it’s a lot more gentle than what he’s used to from her. He's expected her to laugh, all things considered. Francie is tough. Tougher than he’s ever been. 

“I’m too old to turn gay, right?” he asks her. 

“I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t think there’s an age limit on realizing these things.” It’s been years since she called him sweetheart. It’s nice. Comforting. 

“How does Richard feel?” 

“How the hell would I know? He’s in the middle of a media circus after last month, and he-” Jeremy breaks off, shrugs, forgetting that she can’t see him. Pours the last of the wine into his glass and sips. 

“No, I mean- Have you talked to him at all?” Francie inquires, and Jeremy snorts. 

“No, of course not. What would I even say? Since you came out I don’t know what to do with myself? How dare you infect me with your gay?” 

“Maybe you could talk to him when the press has calmed down a little? There’s bound to be someone having a nip slip soon,” she jokes, and while it's not her best, it brings out a little drunk laugh from Jeremy. “And maybe… well, maybe things aren’t as hopeless as you think.”

“He’s seeing someone,” Jeremy says, very quietly. 

“Oh, Jeremy,” Francie answers, again very gently. And that’s the whole crux of it, isn’t it. Even if this all made sense - which it doesn’t - it wouldn’t help him one bit. 

There’s silence on the line for a bit, Francie waiting for him to continue, maybe, or wondering what to say. She’s thoughtful like that. 

Suddenly something occurs to him. 

“You know that I loved you, right? Whatever this is, it’s new,” Jeremy slurs, because it’s important that she knows that. No matter what’s going on with him now, it doesn’t change the past.

“Yes, Jeremy. I know. Don’t worry about me, we’re fine,” she answers, and there is a smile in her voice. 

~

Jeremy is so hungover the next day that he calls in sick and ignores any and all texts from certain rodents. The day after, he walks into the office and almost straight into Hammond, who goes from startled to grinning happily in 3.5. 

“Mate! Feeling better?” he asks, and Jeremy thought he’d put himself back together properly, but he was so very wrong. 

“Fine,” he says shortly, and speed walks past him. 

“Oh, well, good,” Hammond stumbles, but brightens immediately. “You have to take a look at what we came up with for next series - you’ll love it, it’s-”

“Sorry, got to run and talk to Andy,” Jeremy interrupts, already across the room. “Later.”

“Uhm, I think he’s on the phone,” Hammond calls after him, but Jeremy waves him off without turning and shoulders his way into Andy’s office. Who is, predictably, on the phone. Jeremy makes rude gestures until Andy hurries the call to its conclusion. 

“That was important!” he complains. 

“Who’s more important than me?” Jeremy counters, and launches into a rant about the idiots on the street that he saw on the way to work, and about what he wants to change in next week’s scripts that Andy had already okayed. They argue/brainstorm for a long time, and when Andy finally kicks him out, Jeremy marches by Hammond’s desk with the words, “Sorry, I lost so much time already, I can’t chat,” before Richard can do more than open his mouth. 

The rest of the week continues much the same way. He’s quick tempered and cagey, avoids eye contact, and finds something he needs to do elsewhere whenever Hammond looks like he’d like a word. James and Richard practically have to jump him in a darkened hallway to get him to look at their ideas for the next series. It’s car football. It sounds hilarious. Hammond beams with pride when he says so, and Jeremy bows out of the room as fast as he can, stating, “Football only has two teams, so you two will figure it out.” 

It’s almost surprising how well the studio filming goes the week after. A testament to their professionalism maybe, as much as the Guardian claims they don’t have any. In front of an audience, their lines down pat and the banter flowing, it’s almost easy to forget that something’s massively wrong with him. 

When they wrap up the filming, but before they throw themselves into the throng of excited guests waiting for their chance at a conversation with the three of them, James grabs a hold of both Hammond's and Jeremy’s sleeves and says, low enough for no one else to hear, “Pub. Tonight. No excuses.” 

Then he’s gone. Jeremy catches Richard looking at him with a guarded expression, and quickly looks away. 

“You heard what the man said,” he says, and follows James off the stage. 

~

“We should go to the pub ‘round James’,” Hammond suggests later, the casual tone obviously forced. The other two turn to him with raised eyebrows. 

“Why?”

“Just… you know… change things up a bit?”

“Oh really.”

They keep looking, until Richard finally hedges, “I just don’t think it would be a good idea to go to our regular.” 

Jeremy is very much in agreement, if only because it means he doesn't have to see Hammond and Jeff being all smiley at each other. James thinks differently, though.

“Why ever not?”

“Because Jeff might spit in our drinks!” Hammond yells, temper flaring. 

“What did you do?” Jeremy asks, and the apparent excitement in his tone makes Hammond shoot him a poisonous look. At the same time James asks, compassionately, “Is the media circus getting too much for him?”

“No,” Hammond growls. “It’s personal. Let’s just go to James’.” 

Jeremy takes some offense at that. 

“What do you mean, personal?” 

What’s too personal between the three of them, anyway? He’s told them about his hemorrhoids last week. It doesn’t get much more personal than that.

“It means that it’s none of your business, so back off,” Richard answers hotly. 

"You two better not get me kicked out of my regular. It's walking distance from my house," James declares, effectively cutting off whatever Jeremy had opened his mouth to say. He isn't sure, himself, but should probably be grateful to James, who is shuffling him along and into the Panda. From the corner of his eye he can see Hammond getting into his Porsche. 

After a while, and after the 911 has left them in its dust, James breaks the silence. 

“What did I say? Don’t be a cock.” 

Jeremy nods. It’s true, James did say that a while ago. Even before Jeremy had his ill fated realization. James has handled this whole situation so much better than him from the very beginning.

Realization hits him. 

“Did you know about Hammond?” he asks. 

“Being gay?” James shoots him a look. “I had an inkling.”

“But he never said anything before?”

“No.”

Jeremy nods again. It smarts a bit that James saw it coming and not him. He’s sitting in a Fiat Panda, next to a man driving two miles under the speed limit, and yet he’s the slow one. 

~

Richard’s already occupying a booth when they enter, three glasses of beer in front of him. He’s busy studying the menu card as they sit down. 

“I just remembered why I don’t like coming here. The only food you can order is curry,” he complains.

“Don’t be such a philistine, Hammond. You like the curry here, we’ve had it a hundred times,” James defends immediately. 

“But I don’t feel like curry today!” 

“Well, we _could_ be having burgers and chips if we’d gone to my regular, but for some nebulous reason we couldn’t,” Jeremy chimes in. Hammond glares. 

"Leave it,” he says through gritted teeth. 

They order curries after all, and Jeremy goes for wine, James for his brown beer, and Richard for gin.  
It’s a rather subdued affair, with James trying to start a conversation and the other two only joining hesitantly. Poor May is trying his best to keep them all in drink, as well, having bought at least four rounds to ease the tension. They get more maudlin rather than livelier. 

It scares Jeremy a little, how malevolently gleeful he feels at the knowledge that Jeff and Richard are… what exactly? Having a lovers’ spat? Or is it serious? He has to know. 

“So are you only fighting or really broken up?” he blurts, and immediately gets a kick under the table. Something tells him it wasn’t Hammond who did it. That is not to say Hammond doesn’t look absolutely livid, too.

“Why, oh, why do you have to stick your nose into everything that doesn’t concern you?” he asks, sounding both annoyed and tired at the same time. 

“But it does concern me!” Jeremy argues. It doesn’t, he knows, but he can’t make his mouth stop. His warped logic has gotten him through a lot, maybe his luck hasn’t run out yet. 

Richard continues to argue, though. “How in the world does my love life concern you?! And don’t get started on your mate of the month spiel!” 

Jeremy tries not to let that sting. He also manages not to blurt out anything of the strange things he’s been dealing with. Not ever, and especially not in a crowded pub. But he’ll have to say something. There’s a fightiness-to-drunkenness ratio with Hammond, and at this point, one can never tell where a disagreement with him might go. Jeremy knows that careful handling is important. The problem, though, is that he’s Jeremy Clarkson. 

“I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell us something like that,” he settles on lamely, and surprisingly, Richard hisses an answer. 

“Because he fucking dumped me, Jeremy. Are you happy now?”

Yes. No. None of the things in his head should be vocalized. 

James says, "I'm sorry, mate.

Jeremy asks, completely shocked, “Why would he do _that_?!” 

Richard’s face does something weird, then. His eyes widen, and then he looks away, down into his empty glass that he’s gripping with both hands.

“Why can’t you just let it go?” he asks quietly. Jeremy has no answer for that. _Let it go,_ he thinks at himself. Begs. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter why,” he says, looking away, too. He’s suddenly angry as well, mostly at himself. “Many more fish in the sea, right? And now you don’t have to worry so much about secrecy.” 

“What the fuck do you know!” Hammond snaps, going from small and hurt to spitting mad prize boxer faster than his beloved Zonda. “Instead of playing 20 questions, why don't you focus on getting yourself a bloody girlfriend so you can stop digging around in other people's trash? If you can keep one around while being an insensitive prick, that is!" 

They're staring at each other, ready to pounce. Metaphorically in Jeremy's case, but quite literally in Hammond's. It’s like a Russian standoff. Until there’s a loud squeak as James shoves his chair back and gets up. “Alright, I’m buying the next round,” he says. 

“Why don’t you let Hammond do that?” Jeremy snarks. “He could snog the barkeeper, he’s good at that.”

A voice in Jeremy’s head screams at him to shut up, but he still can’t stop himself. The words just keep coming. “Free drinks, right?” he snaps, gets up and stalks out. 

He gets as far as into the first cab he sees, and rattles off his address when the door on the other side flies open and a drunk, furious Hamster falls in. 

“Same address,” he says, and they spend the ride in utter silence, both fuming. Jeremy thinks, distantly, that only one of them really has any reason to be fuming, and that it’s not him, but he can’t make himself stop now, either. The anger may be irrational, but Hammond’s close proximity is enough to keep it going. 

They pile out of the cab in silence, and the quiet before the storm continues all the way up to the apartment. Then, the moment the door falls into the lock, Hammond is upon him.

“What! The fuck! Was that?!” he snaps, each word accompanied by a shove against Jeremy’s chest. Jeremy shoves back once to get enough space between them to struggle out of his jacket. 

“It’s personal,” he answers, the mockery so sharp it cuts, and strides into the kitchen. 

“Leave it, you cock!”

“You’re the one who just followed me home. If you don’t like what I say, you can always go. I’m sure you’ll find a place to sleep elsewhere.”

“Alright, that’s it. Do you have a problem with me being gay?!” Richard raises his voice, the righteous anger coming off of him in waves.

“No,” Jeremy grumbles, opening the refrigerator for no reason other than not having to look at Hammond, who yells into his ear, “Are you quite sure? Because ever since I told you, you’ve been acting like a cagey bastard!”

“Apart from when I held your hand while you were having a good cry in the loos?” Jeremy yells back, throws the fridge door shut and storms into the living room, Richard hot on his heels.

“Don’t you use that against me, you cock! You have no idea what it’s like,” and Hammond’s voice breaks a little, maybe from the yelling, or the drinking, or the desperate anger. “Getting the shit beaten out of you for something you can’t fucking change. People you considered your friends suddenly giving you the cold shoulder, your mum crying because she’s scared you’ll get murdered-” 

“Stop,” Jeremy breaks in, choked up and nearly begging. “You’re right, I have no idea. God, Hammond, I swear it’s not because you’re gay.”

“If it’s not that, then what the fuck is your problem?!” 

They’re in the middle of the room, facing each other. Even though Jeremy is a foot taller, he feels dwarfed by Richard, who’s standing there like nothing and no one will move him until he gets an answer. So Jeremy gives him one. He screams at the top of his lungs, “I’m not gay!”

“I know!” Hammond answers in kind, building himself up as big as he can. Flushed, wild eyed, hair a mess. He’s practically heaving, he’s so angry. He’s a vision. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

“Because I can’t figure out why you’re so bloody beautiful!”

Hammond’s mouth snaps shut, and Jeremy becomes aware of what he’s just said. They stare at each other, eyes wide and terrified, and it feels like time has come to a standstill. The silence between them is practically deafening. There’s a tsunami wave of dread building up behind him. Jeremy can’t see it yet, but he knows it will break over him any second now and sweep him away. 

“Jezza,” Richard starts, his quiet voice rough after the screaming, but Jeremy doesn’t let him get any further. 

“I’m drunk,” he says, starts rubbing at his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at Hammond. “Just forget it, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Clammy fingers close around his wrists and lift his hands away from his face. Richard is suddenly close, so close that he has to tilt his head way back to look into Jeremy’s eyes. His are filled to the brim with emotions Jeremy can’t interpret. 

“Jez,” Hammond repeats, almost pleading, and he sounds nearly as desperate as Jeremy feels. Jeremy can’t take it, can’t take being looked at by Richard in that way, being spoken to in that tone. 

He surges forward and presses his lips to Hammond’s, shuts him up and out and doesn’t have to do anything but kiss. The surprised squeak quickly turns into eager reciprocation. Fingers dig into his curls and pull him in further, so Jeremy just shuts his eyes and lets it go on. Loses himself in how right it feels.

Kissing is kissing, he notes. It's not as strange as he had thought it might be. Maybe the alcohol is mellowing the differences. It's great, though, eased along by the fact that Hammond’s face is clean shaven and that he’s short like a woman. On the down side, that makes it necessary to maneuver around a bit to spare Jeremy’s neck. In the almost darkness that leads to somebody accidentally brushing against someone's hard cock. 

They both freeze. 

“Fuck,” Hammond says, and pushes against Jeremy’s chest.  
At first he thinks Hammond tries to put some space between them, but when he stumbles back as if burned, Hammond just follows, crowds him back further until Jeremy is up against the wall and has a warm, firm body plastered to his front. 

“Fuck, Jez,” Richard pants, and palms Jeremy’s crotch.

Jeremy can’t help but gasp. It’s so sudden, so good. Then the heel of Hammond’s hand grinds down in slow circles, and a shudder shakes through him. 

“Rich-“ he starts, unsure of what to say, but not able to shut up either.

“Shhh. Just let me,” Richard husks into his ear, warm breath tickling down his neck just to be replaced by a hot, wet tongue. He must be standing on tiptoes to do that, Jeremy thinks in the tiny little part of his brain that’s not completely drunk on wine and adrenaline. 

Any kind of protest dies. Hammond makes short work of fly and belt buckle, shoves his pants out of the way, and Jeremy’s erection springs free. A single finger traces up and down the length of it, teasing, barely touching at all. 

Hammond has the gall to ask, “Do you want me to stop?” 

“Fuck no!” Jeremy gasps out. “Don’t you dare, you bastard!” 

Hammond chuckles, a low and dirty sound. It does things to Jeremy. Nearly as much as the hand around his cock. It moves agonizingly slow, tight and a bit too dry, but on every upstroke Hammond circles his thumb over the head, gathers precum while driving Jeremy crazy, before spreading it on the downstroke. The pumps get slippier, and harder, and Jeremy is pushing his hips up into each stroke to get _more_. 

It occurs to him that he could lean back, close his eyes and just let the sensations wash over him. Think of England. Think of a busty blonde. A hand job’s a hand job, after all.  
He’s shocked, even on this evening of madness, by how much he doesn’t want that. Because what’s the point? He has Richard Hammond up against him, bathed in shadows and still licking and sucking at Jeremy’s neck, while he grinds himself against Jeremy’s hip. 

In this moment in time and space he can’t remember a single time he’s wanted anyone as much as he wants Richard now.

Tomorrow, things may look different, but right now and here, he just doesn’t care. 

So instead, he wraps an arm around Hammond and pulls him up so he can kiss him again. It’s wet and rough, the hand on his cock speeding up to match the rhythm of tongues and teeth, an obscene soundtrack filling the room.  
They are rutting against each other, driving themselves closer and closer to the edge. The heat between them and inside him is building like a fever, shivers wrecking his body, and Jeremy chases that perfect moment on the cliff’s edge, with Hammond in his arms and on his mouth and cock and everywhere around him.

Then Richard flicks his wrist in a peculiar way, lets his palm drag over the head one last time, and moans, “Fuck, Jezz, please,” and Jeremy’s coming. Nothing in the world could hold him back, faced with _that_. That noise out of Hammond’s mouth. 

The world goes bright, even in the dark. 

~

Jeremy wakes with a hangover, a crick in his neck and a warm weight nestled in his side. It takes a moment for him to remember why he’s sleeping on the couch, and who is drooling on his shoulder. Not even the hangover can save him from the cold, hard lump of dread forming in his stomach. 

He extricates himself as carefully as possible from Hammond, who is still sleeping like only a man after a night of heavy drinking can. Then, after quickly righting his clothes, Jeremy is out of the door, taking the stairs down and out of the building two at a time. He doesn’t quite feel up to driving just yet, with rest-alcohol and a pounding headache, so he just walks wherever his feet lead him. 

It turns out they lead him to a pharmacy and a supermarket, where he acquires aspirin and a bottle of water. The cold morning air, paired with the physical exertion, finally wakes him up properly. All of last night's events weigh his steps down, make him want to kick himself, crawl into bed and never come out. 

"Come out, haha," he mutters to himself.

He still feels miserable, of course, but enough of his brains have returned to conclude that sneaking out on a one night stand only really works if the one night stand didn’t take place in your own apartment.  
With a sigh, he walks around the block a second time. Surely, that’s enough time for Hammond to wake up, realize he’s alone, and piss off. 

The 911 isn’t parked in front of the building, and Jeremy silently jubilates before he remembers that they came by taxi last night. The glimmer of hope that Hammond went to the pub to get his car dies when Jeremy eases the apartment door open and his nose is assaulted by the smell of something burning. For a crazy moment he wonders if Richard set his apartment on fire out of revenge. 

In the kitchen he finds the man himself making breakfast. 

“What’s that smell?” he asks, startling Hammond into nearly dropping the pan with sausages. It earns him a glare. 

“I burned the first lot. Sit down, you big coward, we need to talk.”

“About what? Our feelings?” Jeremy snaps, which only intensifies the glare.

“You’ve done gayer things than that in the last twenty four hours,” Richard shoots back.

That shuts Jeremy up. He takes a seat at the kitchen table and spends the next fifteen minutes watching Hammond dish up the only slightly burned breakfast, as well as coffee. Strong coffee. The hangover kind. There’s a good chance all of this will give Jeremy heartburn, but it’s going to be worth it if it gets him through the upcoming talk. 

Hammond plonks himself down and digs in. Still without saying anything. The tension is mounting, and Jeremy starts contemplating if he should say something. Thank you, maybe? Something like, _I really appreciate the handjob, mate. It was pretty great!_ Or maybe more something along the lines of, _I’m terribly confused and terrified of you_?

“You still want to know why Jeff dumped me?” Hammond asks apropos nothing, sounding very annoyed still. 

Jeremy puts down his cutlery and nods mutely.

Richard clears his throat, and then keeps staring at his toast, spreading the marmite that Jeremy only owns because of him with precise movements. Then he stabs his butter knife into the crust of the toast, and as he pulls it back out again, he says, “He was fucking me really good, and the moment before I was coming, I moaned. But instead of his name, you know what I said? Instead of ‘Jeff’, I moaned ‘Jezz’.”

Jeremy’s heart does a weird thing. Something like a salto. More sporty than he's ever been. 

He doesn’t know what to say. He should feel smugness, he thinks, but his brain is absolutely empty. 

“Because I like you, Clarkson,” Hammond goes on, looking up, tense and so serious. The usual laughter lines are as smoothed out as they’ll ever get, the ones on his forehead more pronounced in his frown. Sometimes Jeremy forgets that those also exist. He isn’t used to Richard frowning at him, though after the last few weeks maybe he should be. 

“I like you a lot, for some ungodly reason. So if this is some midlife crisis bullshit, if you’re just looking to experiment, do it with someone else. Because I can’t.”

Hammond places one of his hands between them on the table. It’s such a little, offhand gesture, but there’s nothing casual about it. It’s like a question. Or half an answer. 

Then they are staring at each other, and Richard’s eyes are so open and vulnerable, so full of all the emotions Jeremy has tried to lock away in recent weeks, it floors him. How can that man wear all of his feelings out in the open like that, and how did Jeremy not see? How is this supposed to work? How is he supposed to figure this out?

But Richard is waiting for an answer, and the longer it takes to get one, the more heartbroken he looks. The hand that rests in the middle of the table starts inching away, like the bridge is being retracted, and that just won’t do.

“No,” Jeremy says, because fuck being scared. He’s Jeremy Clarkson. Nothing scares him. “I don’t think it’s a midlife crisis.” 

There is a glimmer of hope. The hand on the table is a little cold and clammy when Jeremy covers it with his own, feeling sentimental and a bit stupid. He’ll just have to warm it up. 

“No?” Richard asks. 

“No. I think you were right,” Jeremy answers, and startles a laugh out of himself with the thought. “My gaydar _is_ shit. I didn’t even know about myself.” 

He looks down again and shakes his head at himself. The hand beneath his turns, grabs a hold of his and squeezes a little. 

"There are more options than gay and straight, Jez," Hammond says gently. 

"I guess,” Jeremy agrees hesitantly. “But until recently I didn't think that concerned me." 

He has liked his neat little heterosexual world just fine before Hammond had to go and make it messy. 

Despite everything, the cheeky little bugger grins. “And I changed that, did I,” he says. Jeremy glares at him, but it does nothing to dispel the utter glee, the happiness in his stupid handsome face. Jeremy feels dizzy by how much it affects him. It’s that smile. If that makes him one of the many Hammond fan girls, then so be it. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” he says without meaning to, again. Richard blushes comly, and tells him to shut up, and then they’re kissing. Over the table. He’s pretty sure he’s tipped over his coffee cup, but what does it matter? 

Hammond tastes like coffee and marmite. 

~

Later that day, once he is alone again in his apartment, Jeremy texts his ex wife. 

_Jeremy: I slept with Hammond_

A few moments later, his phone beeps.

 _Francie: TMI_

_Jeremy: Twice_

_Francie: Congratulations. Do you want an update every time I get laid?_

Jeremy makes a face, starts typing. 

_Jeremy: No. It would just turn into a contest._

One that he would probably lose.  
There are a few minutes of radio silence, and Jeremy has the distinct impression that Francie is laughing at him, wherever she is. Then his phone chimes again. 

_Francie: Will you see each other again?_

Jeremy is tempted to answer that he’d be hard pressed not to see Hammond anymore, since they are working together. He doesn’t. Instead, he types _Yes._

Never has a single word scared him so much, nor made him this giddy. 

_Francie: Good._

_Francie: But you’re telling the kids._


End file.
